Happy Eleventh Birthday, You're A Witch!
by RionaMeave
Summary: What happens when Jane Austen's Margaret Dashwood finds out she's a Muggleborn?


"Oh, thank you, Daddy! It's just what I wanted!" Margaret struggled to lift the oversized atlas from its box. The book let out a small creak as she lifted its glossy new cover and marveled at the complexity of its drawings. Just then, the butler, Chauncey, entered the room with his usual indifferent expression.

"A Professor McGonagall here to see you, sir." A distinguished-looking woman of middle age followed behind him, carrying a thick envelope.

"Thank you, Chauncey," Mr. Dashwood replied, and approached the woman with curious interest.

"Good evening, Professor. May I inquire as to the nature of your visit?"

"Certainly, Mr. Dashwood; it is the occasion that brings me to your door this evening."

"What occasion do you mean, madam?"

"Why, Margaret's eleventh birthday , of course. I have something of a gift for her."

"A present?" Margaret's attention was momentarily diverted from her atlas as she looked towards the visitor with excitement.

"Of sorts, dear," Professor McGonagall said, handing the letter to her. "I must warn you, you might want to be seated for this. It might be a bit of a shock."

Mr. Dashwood did so hesitantly, anxiously awaiting the news.

"Dear Ms. Dashwood," Margaret read aloud. "'We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.' …But…I'm not a witch..."

"Oh, but in fact, you are. You are what we call a Muggle-born, a witch born to Muggle–non-magic–parents."

"What is this poppycock?" Mr. Dashwood exclaimed, infuriated. "Witchcraft? Wizardry? Muggles? What kind of game are you trying to play?"

"Why no game at all, Mr. Dashwood. I'm merely-"

"Trying to put false ideas in my poor daughter's head? You can't just waltz in here and say, 'Happy eleventh birthday, oh, and by the way, you're a witch!' And that's another thing, how do you know my name?"

Across the room, Mrs. Dashwood ushered the three girls upstairs.  
"But can't I stay?" Margaret asked. "I want to hear this!"

"Come on, Margaret," Elinor ordered, grabbing her hand. "Time for bed."

"But I'm not sleepy! Can't I stay?"

"Marianne, you too. Come on, now."

"Oh, you go on up. I'll be there in a minute," Marianne said. She followed them into the adjoining room but paused just beyond the doorway, listening fervently.

"But I don't want to go to bed!" Margaret cried again, reluctantly following her sister up the stairs. "Marianne gets to stay; why can't I?"

"And furthermore, there is no such thing as MAGIC!" their father's enraged voice carried throughout the house like a clap of thunder, startling the girls.

"But magic is real…isn't it?" Margaret implored Elinor with innocent naivety.

"Come along now, darling. Off to bed."

Nearly twenty minutes later, the atmosphere of the house had changed completely; primarily because of the absence of Mr. Dashwood's angry voice echoing up the stairs. Elinor had successfully tucked her youngest sister into bed and avoided telling her that magic was, in fact, not real. She settled in a rocking chair by her sister's bed, watching Margaret over the top of her book as she fumed, arms crossed over her chest and muttering under her breath. Just then, Marianne burst into the room, exclaiming excitedly, "You wouldn't believe what's going on out there! That Professor woman is a witch!"

"Marianne, don't be ridiculous. You know as well as I do-"

"No, she really is! She did magic and everything! I saw it! She pulled out a wand – a real wand - and turned the divan into a rabbit! I saw it myself! And now she's got Father convinced that that school really exists! That letter was real!"

Elinor abruptly rose from her chair and pulled Marianne roughly into the hallway. "Now don't put on a show for Margaret's sake. Giving her false hope will only make it worse when she finds out it's not real."

"But I wasn't putting on an act! That woman really is a witch! A broomstick-riding, cauldron-stirring witch!"

"Oh for-" Just then the girls heard their parents' footsteps creaking up the staircase and hurried back inside the bedroom.

"Girls," their father's voice was slightly hoarse, but calm none the less, "we need to speak with Margaret, alone."

Margaret looked curious and hopeful, but also a little scared by her father's sudden composition. For a moment Marianne looked as though she might argue, but Elinor placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her a look that prevented her from doing so. Wordlessly, both girls left the room, closing the door softly behind them. Margaret watched her parents seat themselves before her, not daring to imagine what they had come to tell her.

"As it turns out, it seems I was mistaken about that letter. Your mother and I have decided" – he cleared his throat – "that you may choose whether or not you would like to attend Hog…that magic school."

"Oh, but of course! I would love to! Oh, thank you, Daddy! And you too, Mummy!" She flew off the bed and wrapped them up in a bear hug, oblivious to her parents' hollow tones and somber expressions.

--

"Alright now, one more stop for your owl and then it's off to King's Cross Station."

"But, Mr. Diggle, sir, how will we manage to carry it?" Margaret asked her chaperone. "We're already holding so much." She struggled to readjust her purchases in her arms.

"Ah, yes," he said, setting down his heavy load right in the middle of the crowded street. "I should have done this a long time ago. Wingardium Leviosa!"

Margaret stared in awe as the entire collection of lumpy parcels rose up unaided and hovered just overhead. She hardly noticed when he took her load into his own arms.

"There we go. Oh, here we are already. Here's the rest of your money," he said, handing her a small bag of coins. "Go ahead and buy an owl; I'll wait out here."

Within minutes, she found the one she wanted. Small and brown, it hooted rhythmically, moving its body in such a way that it appeared to be dancing. She could tell that it wanted nothing more than to be let out of its cage and never have to return to it. She stepped back outside to see Mr. Diggle gathering up all of her packages, muttering apologies and excuses of which she caught only several phrases, such as "lost my concentration" and "if only that blast-ended skrewt hadn't squealed so loudly..."

She spotted her family immediately, standing by Platform 9 and ran to greet them. Finally, Mr. Diggle caught up with the cart of newly-bought items, panting slightly. "This must be the Dashwood clan," he observed. "My name is Dedauls Diggle." He removed his tall, green hat and bowed so low his nose stopped only inches from his knees. "You must be her father," he said to Mr. Dashwood, seizing the man's hand from his side and shaking it enthusiastically. "And you must be her mother… and Marianne…and Elinor." He shook each of their hands in turn, though no one offered it. "Yes, Margaret has told me quite a bit about each of you." His gaze fixed itself on Elinor. But I must admit, I would not have suspected that the four of you would be as good-looking as the fellows I am standing in front of right now." He gave her a sly smile, prompting her to gather her fan from her small handbag and begin slowly fanning herself. "And although all of you are of admirable appearance, some appear more admirable than others." Looking away, Elinor slowed the motion of her fan even more. "I must say, that is an intricate-looking fan," Mr. Diggle remarked, reaching out his hand. "Do you mind if I-"

"Pardon me, sir," Mr. Dashwood interrupted. "But the letter said the train was to leave at eleven o'clock and it will be just that time before long. Now exactly how do we get to Platform 9¾?"

"Oh, why, yes of course. It's just through that column. If everyone would please follow me…" With that he walked straight into the brick column beside him and disappeared.

"We all made it safely through, then?" Mr. Diggle inquired, as Mrs. Dashwood appeared out of the brick. "Before we do anything,-"

The train whistled, letting out a burst of steam. "Oh, dear, the train will be leaving in one minute! Margaret, you must get on the train now; I'll take your cart over to Hagrid." He escorted her away before any proper goodbyes could be exchanged.

Margaret waved from the train window to her parents and sisters as it pulled out of the station, excited about her new school, but already mildly distressed over parting from her family for such a long time.

"My name is Margaret Dashwood. What's yours?"  
"I'm Draco Malfoy."

"Draco Malfoy? That's a funny name. How old are you?"

"Eleven."

"Me too."

"Are you a Pureblood?"

Margaret didn't know what a Pureblood was, but it sounded like a good thing to be. "Yes. Are you?"

Draco snorted. "Of course. Purest blood there is." His blonde head turned towards the compartment's door, which was slightly ajar. He seemed to sense something coming. Just then, a young, redheaded boy passed by. "Ah, if it isn't the newest Weasley," Draco sneered, looking him over. "Ha, look at that. Who would have thought the words "newest" and "Weasley" would ever fit in a sentence together?"

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

Margaret noticed that the outer edges of the boy's ears were sporting a gradually deepening shade of red.

"Nothing that you can afford."

The "newest Weasley" turned red in the face and walked away, casting nasty glances at Draco.

Margaret turned to her friend. "Why did you do that?"  
"The Weasleys are a family you want to stay away from. They're blood traitors."

"Oh." Margaret didn't know what that meant either, but she assumed it to be a bad thing from the tone of his voice.

For the first few weeks of classes, everyone was caught up in a frenzy. Never before had Margaret been so intrigued by such an experience. She had been sorted into Gryffindor, which was somewhat inexcusable to Draco. He spent the majority of his time with two people that reminded her of stone pigs named Crabbe and Goyle. She had been busy making friends and exploring the gargantuan school grounds with them.

The biggest excitement came in Potions when they were brewing up their first potion, a simple one used to cure hiccups, and her partner, Neville Longbottom, managed to blow it up by mistaking ground bison horn for powdered hippogriff hooves. Professor Snape seemed less than thrilled, but it was hard to tell what he was thinking, as his expression never strayed from his usual stern, even angry look.

Another memorable event occurred several days later in the bathroom before dinner. Margaret was just about to leave for the Great Hall when she heard a low sob coming from the farthest stall. She finished patting her hands dry and curiously walked towards the sound. Softly pushing open the door, she spotted a head of bushy mouse-brown hair and a shaking body.

"Are you alright?" Margaret asked.

The girl turned around, clearly startled. "Oh, yes. It's just that Ronald Weasley. He called me a know-it-all and a nightmare."

"I get called that loads of times and it never hurts my feelings. He's just jealous because you know more than him."

"Do you think so?"

"Definitely. He doesn't look very smart." She led the crying girl out of the stall and handed her several paper towels. "I'm Margaret, by the way."

"Hermione."

Just then, a toilet flushed and an awkward looking boy with big ears stepped out of the nearest stall, buckling his belt. As he looked up and spotted the two girls, his face flooded with a brilliant shade of red and transformed into a magnificent deer-in-headlights impression. "Not again!" he cried shakily in a high-pitched Irish accent, and ran out before either Margaret or Hermione could say anything.

--

"Troll!" The massive doors of the Great Hall burst open as the school's Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Quirrell, ran in. He sprinted as fast as he could, limping slightly, up to Dumbledore's chair. "Troll – in the dungeons – thought you ought to know."

The headmaster made his voice heard even over the eruption of chaos. "Prefects, lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!"

A lanky redheaded boy, unmistakably another Weasley, stood up and ordered all Gryffindor students to follow him. Margaret spotted two students ducking out from the group and hurrying to the door. She recognized one as the "newest Weasley," the one she now knew to be named Ronald, and the other one she had heard called "Harry." Interested as to where they were going and why, she slipped through the crowd to follow them.

"And where do yeh think yer goin'?" a gruff voice asked testily. She was pulled backwards almost violently as the man grabbed onto the back of her coat. At roughly ten feet tall and five or six hundred pounds, he was easily the largest living thing she had ever seen; his hands were the size of pumpkins and could probably crush one without too much trouble. "You heard Dumbledore, yeh are to return to yer dormitory. Get back with the rest of yer classmates." Disappointed, Margaret obeyed.

The whole castle remained alive with excitement and in the Gryffindor common room, there was mention of only one subject. Neville's corner was particularly entertaining.

"What if it kills somebody?"

"It won't. I bet it's not even real."

"Well if it is, I hope it wrecks Snape's classroom so we don't have Potions anymore."

"I hope it wrecks SNAPE!"

"Oh! That's a terrible thing to say!"

"Gross! Seamus! Don't pick your nose!"

"I'm not picking it! It itches!!"

"Dean? Do you think the troll could find us up here, in Gryffindor tower?"

"Well, I dunno Neville. I suppose it might be able-"

"It's alright Neville," Margaret interjected. "Didn't you hear Quirrell? He said that it was in the dungeon. Which means it'll get the Slytherins first!"

Her worried classmate seemed to take a slight comfort in the image of Draco Malfoy, his regular tormenter, dangling by the ankle from the hand of a mad troll. He smiled, thankful for her reassurance and said, "Margaret, these are my friends; Dean Thomas, Michael Corner, and Seamus Finnigan."

"I know you!" she responded excitedly, pointing at Seamus.

"You're that boy from the ba-"

"aaaack-to-back classes we have together," he finished for her. "Yeah, Charms and uh…Herbology. Yes…that's how you know me."

Margaret looked confused, but decided it was probably best to go along with whatever it was he was trying to do.

"But…" started Neville with a contorted face as though he were thinking very hard about something. "I have both of those classes with Margaret and you're not-"

"Speaking of Herbology," interrupted Seamus fidgeting a little, "I noticed you've got a new plant, Neville."

Neville still looked perplexed, but let the subject go. "It's a fern," he explained. "A Muggle plant. Gran sent it to me. She said it would be an easy one to take care of. They don't need much watering, see. They absorb water out of the air and…"

"Remember, swish and flick," Dean repeated, with appropriate hand gestures. "Swish and _flick_." He noticed the others, each engrossed by a different distraction. "Come on, _focus_."

"But we're bored," Margaret complained. "Can't we take a break?"

Dean shut his book with a little more force than needed and sighed heavily. "Oh, alright, but just a short one. Our test is tomorrow."

"I get to choose the game!" called Seamus.

"But you said I could choose it this time," Margaret reminded him.

"You can choose it next time."

"You always say that and then I never get to!"

"Aurors and Death Eaters!" He ignored her plea.

"Aurors and what?"

"Death Eaters. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's supporters."

"How do you play?"

"It's like the Muggle game, Cops and Robbers," Michael said.  
"Oh, I play that all the time back at home!…I want to be a robber!"

"Me too!" yelled Seamus.

After some argument about the boundaries, the game was on. Margaret and Seamus decided to hide in the same place, as they suspected the cops would split up and only one would find them.

Finally, they climbed into the loftiest tree they could find and crouched on its branches, well hidden in the foliage. Seamus took the opportunity to make a certain confession.

"I like you, Margaret."

"I like you, too."

"No, I mean I think you're really cute." He looked around nervously to make sure no one was watching and then nervously planted a small kiss on her cheek.

"Shhh! Stop rustling the branches! They're coming!"

Unfortunately, Seamus and Margaret's budding romance was hindered by her father's sudden illness. Struck by tuberculosis, he required his family by his side during his failing health. Margaret was withdrawn from Hogwarts days later and remained with her family until she was permitted to return three years later where she reunited with her magical friends. The next year, at the ripe young age of fifteen, Seamus finally managed the words, "Will you go out with me?" Margaret accepted, although not entirely familiar with the phrase, and the two courted and became engaged, finally marrying four years later when Seamus was able to spit out the words, "Will you marry me?" Although it was horribly unromantic (he had taken her to the bathroom where they had first met), she accepted once again, and the two lived happily ever after.


End file.
